


Waiting for Nothing

by AtomicMint



Series: Born to die [1]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Hurting Klaus is my game, I don't think it's going to get better, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Klaus Hargreeves Deserves Better, Klaus Hargreeves-centric, Mental Health Issues, Protective Ben Hargreeves, Trauma is thy name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23804617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicMint/pseuds/AtomicMint
Summary: Klaus dies. Again and again (and again).Though, to be fair, his first death is the only one that matters in the greater scheme of things. The rest are ultimately meaningless as Klaus tumbles down an inevitable decline with all the grace of a three-legged swan.Or the one where Klaus dies (a lot) and gets himself trapped in a tragic cycle of death, the dead, and a quick high.Then there’s Ben, who’s just here for the ride.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Series: Born to die [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714984
Comments: 11
Kudos: 275





	Waiting for Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> Possible trigger warnings: Suicide / Swearing / Mentions of substance abuse / Religious themes (which are kind of glossed over) / Klaus' shitty mental state / Hargreeve's A+ parenting

The door of the mausoleum closes.

The screams, and by this point he isn't quite sure where his end and theirs begin, grow in volume.

Slapping his hands to his ears achieves nothing, they're already digging their claws deep inside his head, here there is no refuge from their cruel taunts and howls.

A hand, suddenly tangible, reaches to press wrinkled fingers to his neck. Cold and unfamiliar, pressing against his throat with an almost tender grip.

Tighter and tighter grows the clutch, until Klaus is forced to raise his eyes. Struck with terrifying realisation when he meets an empty pearl gaze that shines keen with alien clarity.

This is real, he finally understands, flinching in weak protest as the figure draws him closer into a sickening mockery of an embrace. It’s not just a figment of his overactive imagination. This is a real threat.

The ghostly hand at his throat tightens.

He can't breathe.

Muscles straining, Klaus flails heavy limbs. Feet kicking against the spirit’s stomach as he is lifted higher and higher. Behind his assailant, the other ghosts crowd together. Watching in abstract fascination as he convulses.

The world fades to black and, for once in his short life, Klaus forgets how to feel fear.

The freedom is intoxicating.

* * *

In the absence of fear, an abyss emerges. Vast and tragic.

Deep down in little number Four something… breaks.

* * *

"Ah, my dearest, how awful…" Klaus breathes his thoughts into his elbow. Crouched close to the ground, limbs pulled in tight as he grounds his damp cigarette into shorn grass. His boots sinking deep into the mud as he rocks back. Angling his face up to the sky and allowing the rain to track great canyons into his skin. "I'm so very jealous…"

Abigail, dear sweet Abigail with her too big eyes and shaky positivity, a colourful bloom in a grayscale world, says nothing in return.

She can't; She's dead.

* * *

Klaus laughs and laughs and laughs as the alcohol sinks deeper. Blurring the edges of his vision and filtering through muscle and bone. An insidious poison that he loves with the passion of a dying man.

* * *

He laughs because life is one great big joke and Klaus is the punchline.

* * *

Following a dinner that’s only a degree more uncomfortable than usual; Five goes missing.

Maybe he succeeds in his time travel experiment. Maybe he runs away, Klaus wouldn’t blame him for the latter. Although he wishes Five would have taken him, or at least Ben, Ben deserves something nice, along for the ride.

Anything would be better than staying at home with dad.

And if he curls up every night, hands clapped to his ears and eyes clenched shut, praying that he won't wake to Five's familiar face. Well. That’s no one’s business but his own.

* * *

"It's not fair." Vanya whispers one night, her delicate hands clenched together in white fingered fists as she stares down at the oak kitchen table. She avoids looking in Klaus' direction and he sighs. Reclining back into his chair, one leg thrown up and balanced on the table as he nurses a bottle between greedy hands.

"What's not fair?" He asks, through the press pf his migraine, because he loves his sister. No matter the distance their father tries to enforce between them.

"That you guys-" Vanya flinches before squaring her shoulders, face creasing into a frown as she practically hisses: "Powers, abilities, dad's love. You guys have it all and I'm left with nothing but an empty room and a violin. How is that fair?"

Even muffled into the neck of his bottle, Klaus' snort is loud and abrasive.

"No!" The slam of Vanya's palm slices through his bitter humour. As sharp as any of his needles. "You don't get to just - I don’t know - dismiss me, Klaus! This is serious! None of you guys see how lucky you are and how much I'm struggling. I’m a member of this family too, Klaus, why can't you just support me. Even if it's just this once."

"Take them then." Klaus throws back, adjusting his grip on the bottle as he drops his foot from the table. Staggering to his feet and, in a rare display of aggression, looming over his sister. Standing at his full height, long limbs pulled taut. "If you or daddy dearest wants to figure it out. Feel free to take this fucking… gift off of my hands." Practically spitting the words, Klaus leans closer, a manic grin pulling at his mouth as he fights past a fast-approaching headache. Mind satisfyingly numb. "I'd rather be dead than have these powers, Vanya. Maybe if you were less jealous and a better fucking sister – you'd wonder why."

She's trembling, he realises as he lurches back, tiny crystalline tears pooling at her lashes as she shrinks in her seat. Pressing her back tight to her chair, scared. Of him.

It’s not fair, he knows, to take his anger and frustration out on her. She doesn’t know any better. But he can’t help himself. Wanting to be like Klaus? How ridiculous. She doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend, the hell that emerges to scorn him every time he walks into a room. To say she wants a life like this… the thought of her going through this…

Klaus closes the kitchen door, unsteady feet slowly dragging him closer to his room, and hears distantly as she breaks. The hitch of her breath sharp enough to cut through his alcohol addled mind.

Klaus leaves Vanya to weep. Alone in an empty room.

* * *

The door of the mausoleum creaks open, a pained groan that slides into the background as Klaus peers up at his father. Outside of a faint ring of bruises, he is physically fine. Tears long dry as he clenches his fingers together behind his back. He leans against the wall to hide the trembling of his knees.

"Better." Reginald finally comments as the car pulls up to the house, clearly pleased that Klaus hasn't been reduced into a blubbering mess following his meeting with the dead. "Breakfast is in half an hour, Number Four, ensure that you are not tardy,"

"Yes sir." Klaus replies, throat sore as he forces empty words past cracked lips. If he closes his eyes he can still feel the rotting hand at his throat, the glazed eyes staring up at him with a horrific sort of pleasure.

The pride that rises at his father's praise settles toxic in the pit of his stomach and festers.

* * *

Klaus laughs until it hurts and then he laughs some more.

* * *

"Everything is fine." Luther insists, unconsciously wringing his hands together as they stand in a loose circle around the newest addition to their garden. "We just have to be better next time -"

“No.” Diego snarls back, "Ben is dead." His head snaps up as he affixes Luther with a furious glare. Klaus is close enough to watch muscles flex as Diego fights the need to fight. His brother is such a well-trained attack dog. "Is being better going to bring him back? Don’t you see that it’s too late for things to be okay? What makes you think this won't happen again, who are we gonna lose next, huh, Number One?"

"No one!" Luther roars back, the muscles of his jaw twitching, equally as enraged, but as unwilling to throw his fists down, as Diego. "We'll be better. We need to trust dad to help us."

"Oh right!" Diego laughs, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Because d-dad always h-has all the a-a-answers! He doesn’t e-even care th-that B-Ben is d-dead!" He drops his arms and clenches his fists. There's a scarlet flush crawling up the back of his neck, tinting his ears a bright crimson, only visible from Klaus' angle at his back. His brother is clearly embarrassed by the re-emergence of his stutter but too wound up to stop. "G-get off your h-high horse, L-Luther. Yo-you're n-nothing s-special. Dad c-certainly d-doesn’t think s-so."

Stood beside Allison, with her hand on his sister’s shoulder, Mum raises her head. A frown slowly seeping into her expression as she looks between the arguing boys. She has never been the best, Klaus knows, at handling conflict. Dad has never grasped the importance of empathy and, since he’s in charge of fixing up her wiring, it’s clear in how Mum reacts to these situations.

They try not to argue because it makes her look sad, not because she can stop them. Honestly, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

As if sensing their miserable moods, the heavens open and rain begins to fall. Soft droplets that mute the scorn that drips from his sibling's lips and transform the world into a dismal, grey landscape. How appropriate.

Klaus misses how alcohol used to dull this; he craves the feeling of feeling nothing at all.

There are pills beneath his bed and an overdose calling his name.

* * *

"Wow." Says Ben, blood splayed across his mask and arm stretched across Klaus' shoulders. He's staring past Luther's head, trailing his eyes down the metal of the statue named after him. "It looks like crap."

Klaus hums in agreement, leaning back into his brother's chilled body and closing his eyes.

"Dead men tell no tales." He hums, whimsical as can be as he watches blue drops of blood fall from Ben's hand to dissipate once they connect with Klaus' skin.

"That doesn't mean they don’t have tales to tell." Ben whispers back, smothering a laugh into Klaus’ neck. Would you look at this boy, laughing at his own funeral. The idiot doesn’t need to hide it though. It’s not, Klaus knows, scowling up at the stupid statue, as if anyone else is going to hear him.

* * *

Vomit catching at his chin, Klaus bends at the waist. Hands a heavy weight at his knees and fingernails digging into the meat of his thigh. Last night’s dinner, if you can call half a donut and a stale slice of bread dinner, isn’t any tastier on the second try.

A cool palm comes to settle at his back. Rubbing soft but unseen circles into the faded denim of his jacket.

“Why do this to yourself?” Ben asks, low and concerned. “You said that the alcohol hasn’t worked since dad’s training. So why do you hurt yourself like this.”

Klaus spits and wipes at his chin before throwing his head back with a wet gasp. Stumbling away from his sick puddle and scraping his bare shoulder on rough brick. Ben is a constant at his side, supporting Klaus as best as he can, considering his ghostly status, and helping him sink down to the ground. Legs spread wide and back pressed to the wall.

“Ah my dear little brother.” He croons, closing his eyes and delighting in the sweet caress of chilled air against his burning head. “Thou musn’t knock the poison until thou haseth the chanceth to try … eth.” With each exaggerated word, Klaus weakly motions with his hand and raises his upper lip. A king speaking to his most loyal subject. Dropping off into a muttered: “But I guess you’ll never get the chance to try, being dead and all.”

“Ha ha.” Ben deadpans, the delightful little savage, Klaus takes full responsibility for the kid’s snark, by this point he’s practically raised number Six. Who cares if, had Ben survived, they’d be the same age. “Hitting below the belt there, Klaus. Real funny. Answer the question.”

“Ben…” Klaus drawls, purposefully obnoxious, “Why does it matter.”

“Because I said so. Give me an answer, asshole.”

Klaus cracks open an eye, peering up at Ben with something close to irritation burning in his gaze.

“There isn’t anything else for me to do.” He finally mutters after a beat of silence that lasts far too long. Head lolling to the side. “Life is meaningless, I figure I might as well strain every bit of fun from this that I can.”

“Fun?” Ben falls to crouch beside him, throwing his hood back as he digs his fingers into his hair. Pulling at the strands as he glares down at the ground. What a well-meaning idiot he is. “You’re killing yourself, Klaus.”

“No.” Says Klaus, swallowing back a laugh and tasting an echo of blood. “I’m really not.”

* * *

Klaus ducks into a crouch, Luther’s fist scraping the tips of his hair as he narrowly dodges. From there, Klaus twists, using his lithe body to his advantage as he dances back. Eight rapid steps for Luther’s stumbling three.

Never let it be said that Klaus doesn’t know how to use his, admittedly few, advantages.

Luther suddenly roars, obviously struck by the need to prove himself whilst Daddy dearest is nearby and keeping an eye on them, lunging forward with reckless abandon. His sudden movement catches Klaus by surprise. Although he manages to avoid the brunt of the attack, a stray fist still catches Klaus’ ribs with a crippling blow. Smashing him down into the floor and driving the air from his lungs.

There’s a crack, likely Klaus’ poor ribs, but Luther doesn’t seem to hear. To caught up in his rage as he spins to continue. Klaus rolls with the next attack, knowing he won’t be able to dodge with his newly limited movement, and uses the momentum to clamber to his feet.

Every breath is a battle and his face twists into a rough approximation of a grimace.

There’s a ghoul at Luther’s shoulder. Klaus realises, almost absentminded. A victim from their latest mission no doubt, and from the way the poor man’s entire chest is caved in, Klaus thinks he can guess who Luther’s last sparring partner was. It would be so easy, he knows, to flick his wrist and pull that spirit into the real world. Fury tangible and fists ready to crush, a scream dragging at cracked lips. Luther wouldn’t stand a chance against _this_ surprise attack. But--

Luther races towards him, fist raised as he howls a war cry. Desperate – so damn desperate for just a little bit of recognition. A glimpse of praise from the man with no heart.

Klaus lowers his hands, incredibly aware of Hargreeve’s judging eyes, and does exactly nothing.

God it hurts like a motherfucker.

* * *

“Please.” Klaus asks as he looks down. The kid can’t be more than seven, scraggly hair pulled up into cute little pigtails, a teddy bear clenched to her thin chest. Beneath her feet a pool of blue slowly grows, sinking into his carpet. She’s cute in the way most abominations are these days. “Shut the fuck up.”

* * *

When Klaus wakes, the bath water is cold and the towel he’d left to the side of the tub is dyed a wonderful, shiny crimson.

His wrists, by the time he remembers to check, three hours later under the clinical light of one of the training rooms, are pale and unmarred.

It’s not a method he can apply to often, not with six nosy siblings and a scientist of a father, but he’s fairly satisfied with the results.

He labels it a success and heads down for dinner.

* * *

They’re crowded tight around the table, planning for a mission, and Allison is saying something. Right hand to Number One, she stands tall and proud. The picture of leadership and self-confidence. Gesturing with her hands in tandem to a no doubt effortless barrage of well worded arguments and ideas.

Klaus can’t hear a damn word.

Not past the spirits that swarm the room, mouths agape as screams are torn from their throats. They claw at their skin as they moan and cry. Ragged nails digging into their skin and drawing blue blood.

Klaus ducks down in his chair and closes his eyes, sleep is a good, tried and tested, excuse for when the others get angry at his ignorance. They never believe him when he describes the howls of the damned and how sometimes they just won’t shut up.

* * *

“Just stop!” Ben shrieks as he throws his arms into the air. As Klaus watches, the blue energy that shrouds his brother’s ghostly form warps and bulges. The Thing that lays beneath Ben’s flesh, even in death, struggling against its bonds as Ben’s stress levels rise. “Stop doing this to yourself, Klaus! I know you think life’s not worth it or whatever, but you’re killing yourself! One of these days you’re going to go to sleep and not wake up!” He paces, footsteps leaving glowing imprints.

“Eh, its fine.” Klaus drawls, rolling his shoulders and settling deeper into the couch. Comfortable in the flat he’s broken into, fed up with the bitter winter chill.

“No.” Bens snaps. “Its not. Take it from me, the expert at this. You’re going to die.”

“Oh yeah?” Klaus suddenly snaps to attention, voice affecting a mocking tone as he flashes Ben a wild, hysterical grin. All teeth. He cackles, to fill the sudden silence. Shrill and high, he cries: “Wanna bet?”

“What? Bet what, Klaus?”

Ignoring his brother, Klaus drags himself to his feet, alcohol dulling the pain of his knee collides with the coffee table, and staggers towards the kitchen. Gripping the door frame with the tenacity of a predator with prey in its sight. The kitchen is disgustingly immaculate, all modern lines and shiny counters, to the extent that Klaus just wants to ruin it. Instead he focuses on his self-imposed mission. Tripping forward and over to the draws. Pawing through cutlery until he unearths his prize.

A sharp-edged knife, it’s perfect.

“…Klaus?” Ben’s eyes flit nervously between Klaus and the weapon in his hand. Clearly weighing up if the effort of wrestling it from Klaus’ grasp will be worth it. “What are you doing with that.”

“Nothing much.” Klaus croons, eyes fixed on his bounty as he raises it. Admiring the diamond shine it produces beneath the bleak kitchen lights. “I’m just proving a point, Benny-boy. Assuaging all those little fears of yours.”

“Klaus – NO!”

A conductor directing his choir, Klaus raises the knife and pulls it across his neck.

Spraying arterial blood all over these nice white walls, what a terrible pity.

The rush is extraordinary, euphoric.

Ben’s anguished screams, quickly fading into background interference, are not so pleasant. Klaus realises, rather belatedly, as he fades into familiar darkness, that he might have miscalculated.

* * *

“So that might have been a bit of a dick move.”

“You think?”

“At least no one was hurt, ‘cept me I guess.”

“That’s not god enough, Klaus. Hurting yourself shouldn’t be your only answer.”

“I-”

“What? Why are you looking at me like that? Is this really so shocking to hear?”

“No, it’s just. Don’t worry. I just forget sometimes how much I love you, Ben.”

“Are you going to tell me everything?”

“I suppose I’ll have to won’t I.”

* * *

Klaus opens his eyes, which is strange.

Normally, it wouldn't be but Klaus is supposed to be dead right about now. If he focuses he can still feel the loose grip of the beyond, a pulsating cage around his heart. At this point, Klaus should be more of an idea than a person. He shouldn't have ears or eyes or hands or limbs. He should exist only as a wave of energy that lingers beyond the mortal plane.

Confused, he slowly pushes himself to his feet. Bare feet sinking into snow as he raises his arm. Shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare which is perfectly reflected in the icy shards that litter the wasteland he finds himself in. The landscape before him barren, empty of anything but frozen water and a vicious gale.

“Why, hello there.”

Klaus spins, or at least he tries to. His limbs are uncooperative, weighed down and lethargic in this bizarre world he’s found himself a part of.

“I’d prefer to claim that it is not rare for an existence like yours to make its way down here.” There is a man sitting at a small garden table. Seeming to be perfectly comfortable in the snow, dressed in little more than a plain black suit. His only nod to the weather is the brown aviator hat that sits crooked atop his head. “But that would be lying, and we all know that lying is a sin.”

And then, with a wide-eyed Klaus watching, He raises a small china cup of tea to His mouth and takes a long sip. Back straight as he extends his pinky in curtesy. The best way Klaus can think of describing Him is quintessentially… British.

“Who are you?” Klaus manages to ask, breath suddenly visible as the cold finally seems to register to his body. Chill wind seeping through his bones as he looks down and realises that he is as naked as the day he was born. The moisture from his impromptu bath collecting as frozen droplets along the pale expanse of his flesh. “Where are we?”

“Two questions.” Says the man. “Before you have even introduced yourself. How rude.” He dips his hand towards a sugar bowl, that definitely wasn’t sitting prim on that table a second ago, and uses a dainty silver spoon to drop two cubes into His drink. Extends His pinky. Takes another sip. “I do detest the rude, Klaus Hargreeve. We ferry enough of their sort through here already.” He raises his eyes, yellow gaze fixing on Klaus with a predatory clarity that has the boy stumbling back. Nearly slipping straight over on the hard ice beneath his feet. “Do not endeavour to join their ranks, I am on a budget.”

“… yes sir.” Klaus finds himself answering, only half understanding his own words through the debilitating cold.

“Nevertheless, since you are only visiting, I suppose I can afford to entertain you and your questions.” The man sighs, setting his tea on the table with a soft chime and gesturing towards a chair that didn’t exist a moment before. There’s a coat, thick and enticing, spread across its back. In response to the man’s raised eyebrow, Klaus gratefully slips into the coat and perches on the edge of the seat. Suddenly as warm as can be. “The area in which we currently sit is widely considered to be the outer region of hell. As for my identity? Well I suppose you may know me as the owner of this fine establishment. I’m sure you are smart enough to grasp my meaning.”

Klaus’ mouth is suddenly dry, fingers twitching as he makes to leap from his seat. Stopped only by the man’s eyes as they snap to his own with a fearsome intensity. He can’t move.

Still beneath the gaze of a man who can’t be anything but the devil.

“Oh dear.” The Devil says, sounding anything but bothered as He raises his tea once more. “Has the cat got your tongue, odd little suicide boy?”

“I’m sorry.” Klaus finds himself speaking around a leaden tongue. “I’m agnostic so you’ll have to give me a minute.”

The Devil throws His head back and laughs.

* * *

[I don’t speak to my siblings anymore.] The radio announces, the buzz of static a low serenade to Klaus’ migraine addled head. [We all parted ways, amicably of course, no matter how awkward my dear sister made our interactions out to be in her book. I haven’t heard from them for years.]

At Klaus’ shoulder, Ben snorts. “And I definitely haven’t told my assistant to block any calls from my druggie brother.” He taunts, voice shrill and high as he snaps his hand, formed into a small mouth, in time with his words. “I definitely care enough to check up every now and then and make sure he isn’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“Impossible.” Klaus denies, ignoring as tension he hasn’t noticed begins to fade at his ghostly brother’s words. “I’d never be bested by a ditch. At least let me die in a five-star hotel, shooting up with Leonardo di Caprio.”

“Please.” Ben says, pushing Klaus’ shoulder in jest, “As if any celebrity would ever shoot up with you. At best you’d spend it with Mr blobby in a dumpster.”

“I regret ever letting you see that abomination.”

Ben waves of his complaints, a smile stretched across his cheeks, before nudging him again as the radio interview continues.

[No! I swear I never used my power on my siblings.]

This time it’s Klaus’ turn to interrupt as he leans across the counter to turn off the radio. The measure of humour he’s managed to gather at Ben’s banter evaporates.

“I heard a rumour.” He says. “That Allison likes to lie.”

* * *

“I heard a rumour that you won’t run away from dad.” She whispers into his hair, gripping tighter as he pulls away in horror.

 ~~How could you?~~ He doesn’t say.

 ~~Easily~~ , she doesn’t reply.

* * *

Sweet as satin, poison drips from her words as she leans closer. “I heard a rumour that you’ll look at their faces, even if you’re scared.” Head twisting toward the hanged woman on the corner of his sister’s room; Klaus can’t reply.

* * *

“I heard a rumour that you’ll obey dad.” She says.

Words full of that awful, disgusting, finality.

It’s not the first time, and certainly not the last, that Klaus wishes he could sink down into sweet oblivion. Instead he leaves the car and is met with familiar jagged stone walls and a writhing horde of dead people screaming his name.

He thinks, maybe, that he hates Number Three.

* * *

Leaning back against a maple tree, shadows dancing across his pale skin, Klaus peers down at the little girl with a pout pulling at his lips. She stares back, unimpressed, clenching at the handles of her bicycle.

“I think I prefer our mutual friend from down under.” He says. “The devil serves good tea.”

She does not look happy. The familiar cage of death rattles against his chest in warning.

“It is not your time, Klaus Hargreeve. Leave.”

He rises with a gasp to a flat empty of company except Ben. Who hovers, as he always does when Klaus must sink into death again, worriedly. Ghostly hands fluttering over Klaus’ sun warmed skin.

Klaus tips his head back and hums along to a song that he wont remember in the morning.

* * *

“Dance with me?” He asks, extending his hand in offering, still swaying to the lethargic beat. Halfway lost in his own head.

Ben smiles, a small and precious thing, taking Klaus’ hand and letting himself be pulled into a bastardised waltz.

Klaus doesn’t even notice when their feet leave the floor, blue energy swirling at his bare toes. Too entrenched in a heady rhythm and the cool, but familiar, grip of his brother’s hands.

* * *

Klaus has been laughing for so long, he’s forgotten how to speak.

* * *

He settles in for a long wait, legs dangling feely as he perches in the warehouse rafters. Peering down at a group of shady looking, not that Klaus can claim to look like anything better, as they go about their business.

“Why are we here?” Ben quietly asks, crouching besides him with his hood pulled up. Throwing his face into shadow. Its cute, that he lowers his voice like he’s afraid of being caught, a quirk that he’s mostly lost since his death.

“Look at ‘em.” Klaus whispers back, gesturing to the many ghosts that trace the men’s footsteps. “Don’t they look familiar?”

“We see ghosts of people we know all the time.” Ben says, brow furrowed. “What’s so special about these.”

“We see the ghosts of addicts, and other wankers that I’ve come to know and love, all the time.” Klaus corrects. “These aren’t those kinds of people.” He points to a ghost with a crushed leg and a bullet riddled chest, “See that guy, footsy, over there? He worked at the homeless shelter. A genuinely nice guy who tried his best for the community. And over there,” He moves his finger to point at an older woman. Ben baulks at the sight of her gaping stomach. Her arms dropping under the weight of hoisting up her intestines. Klaus continues, unfazed: “Mrs Thomas, remember her?”

“Wasn’t she the receptionist at the police station?”

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner! Tune in next time for the-”

“Klaus.”

“Right, right – sorry, disrespectful and all.” Smothering a laugh into his jacket, Klaus flashes Ben a mischievous grin. Although worry seems to pull at the corners of his eyes, lessening the thrill in his gaze. “You were right though; she was a sweet old lady who worked part time at the station. Nothing to see there. Like pretty much all the people following these assholes ‘round. Look, she sold those homeless magazines. He rescued kittens on his days off work. He worked in the gas station and wrote articles calling for autism awareness.”

“So they attack innocents. Nice people.”

“Ja,” Klaus replies, pulling back his arm to rest his chin on his palm, elbow balanced on the knee he draws up. “Whilst you’ve been monitoring my drug intake, which I really don’t appreciate Benny-boy, I’ve been keeping an eye out for this.” He gestures to the crowd below them. “From what I’ve gathered, they’ve killed at least twenty people in the last week. They get off on it. And believe me, I’m not here to kink shame, but I’m doing all the shaming when it comes to these guys. The victims hard workers and good samaritans. People who will be missed. But because of the poverty ‘round here, and the fact they’re using a different method each time they take someone out-”

“No one’s realised.” Ben finishes, turning his head to meet Klaus’ grim scrutiny. “What’s made you come here, to the heart of their operation? You could’ve just called in a tip with the police. There must have been a trigger.”

Klaus hums, eyes half-lidded as he stares down. Contemplative.

“They’ve been whispering loudly recently,” He says. “About a specific target. Apparently, vigilantes are pretty much the best of the best of targets for sick little men like these guys.”

“Vigilantes… wait is Diego still-”

“The Kraken never left the family business.” Klaus murmurs, quiet as can be. “They’ve put their one collective brain cell into use. This is a trap.”

It’s a sign of how long they’ve been together, and how well Ben knows Klaus, that his brother doesn’t immediately assume that Klaus will let Diego anywhere near this clusterfuck.

“Klaus?” He asks instead. “What have you done?”

With a grin that is just a little bit too big, just a little bit too wicked, Klaus replies: “I kindly accepted their invitation on his behalf.”

He wriggles his bare toes, fingers twitching, and blue light blazes into existence. Travelling from Klaus’ body along the beam, passing through Ben on the way. Infusing into the walls of the warehouse and then, in a matter of seconds, the ground.

In a strange turn of events – when blue figures step through to this side of the spectrum – it’s the living who are first to scream.

Dear little, tottering, Mrs Thomas drops her loose intestines and slams her handbag into the back of a man’s head with the fury of a tiger. Or a goose, Klaus thinks, geese are vicious bastards. The homeless bloke on sixth, who helped kids cross the road, reaches out and snaps a man’s neck.

Ben reaches across to clench at his hand and Klaus realises he is trembling.

Soon the building falls silent. It does not take long.

Klaus sighs and stands, tapping into what remains of his reserves to drift to the ground. Ben at his side, as he always is. He picks his way through the bodies, raising his eyebrows at the teeth marks in once guys ear, before sweeping out into the street. Reaffirming his grip on reality and dropping to walk forward like a regular human.

He calls the police and leaves an anonymous tip. Ben says that it is the least he can do after gifting them a pretty much unsolvable crime.

* * *

“Back again?” Asks the Devil, two cups of steaming tea sitting pretty at their table.

“Don’t you have anything better to do.” Klaus snipes back. Collapsing into his seat and reaching for the sugar.

“Eternal damnation does become rather dull after the first two thousand years or so.”

* * *

Number Two’s hands are gentle as he wraps Four’s bruised knuckles, eyes narrow in focus.

“Aren’t you going ask how I got these.” Four asks, his own eyes affixed to a point somewhere above his brother’s shoulder. His shoulders are trembling, the excess adrenaline from his latest stint in the mausoleum keen and weighted.

“No, Four.” Says Two, finishing his task and pulling Four into an awkward but well-intentioned hug. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I mean. Mum was worried.”

Four swallows back the urge to cry and buries his head in Two’s shoulder.

The worst thing about comfort, he knows, is the gaping hole it leaves in its absence.

* * *

“I don’t want to die.” The woman croaks, her bleeding side already affecting a blue tinge to Klaus’ keen eyes.

“And I don’t particularly want to live.” Klaus replies, ducking below Ben’s chiding strike. “But life’s not fair, the Devil is British, and God is a little brat. Sorry-not-sorry, honey.”

She dies with a warbled cry and Klaus closes her sightless eyes.

Then, still half high from whatever he stuck in himself the night before, he stumbles away from her ghost as she crouches, bawling, over her lifeless corpse.

He has things to do, places to be. Probably. Maybe.

* * *

Klaus sways with the rhythm of the ambulance, mind suddenly blank as the headline screams at him.

“He’s dead?” Ben asks the air, knees pulled tight to his chest as he bunches up beside Klaus on the stretcher.

Klaus whistles low, closing his eyes.

What to do, he wonders, what to do.

* * *

Eventually the laughter will end and Klaus will crawl, fingers bloodied and muscles burning, out of the pit.

Not now.

Not yet.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, this is a mess. But it's my mess and I'm kind of proud of it.
> 
> In case you missed some of the underlying themes and ideas of this, because I'm not sure what was translated outside my head: Essentially, Klaus' panic unlocked his hidden capacity to touch ghosts, and for them to touch him. Which led to his first death. After that death his powers are no longer affected by alcohol or drugs and he's more aware of the dead than ever. He still gets drunk and high because he doesn't think there's anything better to do since, with the way he was raised, he has little concept of living - outside of missions and using his powers - which has severely messed the poor bloke up. Because, he knows more about his powers and how to use them, Ben is able to touch and interact with him from the start.


End file.
